The Wistful Crossroads
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended gray veil that turned the city into a watercolor bleeding at the edges. You stood in the doorway of the precinct, your uniform damp, the fabric heavy against your shoulders like a shroud. It had been raining for three days. The asphalt outside glistened, reflecting the sickly yellow glow of the streetlamps, and in those reflections, you saw...
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